When I went to Poland and France to visit Chopin’s museums and birthplace, I thought it was an extravagance. Turns out it was essential—not because of what I learned about Chopin but what George Sand taught me about writing. And it made all the difference in my final product.
Let me explain.
I resented George Sand. She and Frédéric Chopin were together from 1838 to 1847 and spent a lot of time at Nohant, Sand’s ancestral home in central France. Chopin was a sickly fellow, having contracted TB. But with Sand’s attention, the fresh country air, and good food, he was his most productive. That is, until she dumped him, probably because of his incessant coughs (he had TB) and, one can infer, his diminished mojo in the boudoir. He died two years later.
Every time I sat down to write about her, I did so grudgingly. How dare she abandon him like that!
My attitude toward Sand changed markedly when I visited Nohant, where she died in 1876. I was charmed by the subtlety and warmth of her style: the dining room chandelier with pink roses; roomy kitchen with copper pans; and charming theater, where her son held puppet shows with marionettes dressed in garments George herself had sewn. I saw a softer, artistic side, a counterpoint to her vitriolic tracts and it’s-all-about-me rebuff of lovers. I was smitten with her exquisite taste.
I left Nohant that late September day feeling chastened that I had taken sides against her. Irascible, yes, and selfish at times, but she deserved to be fairly portrayed.
So, Madame Sand, I raise my glass to the best teacher of all. À votre santé!
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